Brokenpromiseland
by smaragdbird
Summary: 'But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again.'


The sky was dark and every breath filled his lungs with ash, had it tearing through his throat and he could taste the blood in his mouth. His eyes burned and his ears rang with the mocking screams of the orcs. They had come across a hot mud pit earlier where the orcs had thrown in prisoners they had no longer needed. The mud became hard as stone when it came into contact with air and it was so hot that the victims had been suffocated and boiled alive at the same. No one had been able to tell which of them had been dwarves or elves or men or maybe even orcs. They had been grotesque statues, nothing else. Thranduil felt sick with the memory but he couldn't show weakness now. His father was dead and his people depended on him to keep them together while they tore Mordor apart.

He had thought that Angband had been the heart of darkness but now he saw how mistaken he had been. Sauron may not have had Morgoth's power but he had made it up with cruelty and ingenuity. His instruments of torture were more refined and where Morgoth had used outright fear Sauron had dealt with deception and corruption. He had given free reign to those who loved slaughter and screams, had taken advantage of bloodlust and the desire to terrorize.

The Last Alliance had defeated Sauron and now they needed to lay bare all the horrors of Mordor. Despite his death the sky hadn't cleared and Thranduil longed for any kind of light but the grey, washed-out dimness around him.

They had sworn to look for survivor or else Thranduil would've already torched this place. Privately he thought that anyone who was still alive would probably be better off dead than live with such horror in their soul.

"My Lord", one of his soldiers had opened a door and promptly emptied his stomach on the floor. The stench that came from the room was overwhelming and Thranduil approached it with dread pooling in his stomach.

It took nothing more than a look. He pulled the door closed. "Out! Everyone out. We'll burn this place down. There are no survivors."

No one challenged his command.

In later years he often wondered if the other search troops had found something similar and if yes how they lived with it or maybe they hadn't. Thranduil was the only one left of the search party that had gone to the small fort at the foot of Orodruin.

He had hoped that time would dull the memories but he couldn't escape them. Not in the dark cover of the night where his dreams pulled everything close to the surface again, nor in the brightness of day where even the sun was dimmed whenever he looked south.

They had left Mordor broken and deserted under the vigil of the kings of men but Minas Ithil had fallen back into the hands of the Witchking a millennium ago and Dol Guldur was vulnerable no matter what the white council did.

While Legolas had been a child Thranduil had done his best to shield him from the horrors that waited within and outside Mirkwood. And later he had only told him what had been necessary. The stench of blood, the travesties and pure, shining cruelty clad into a story. Stories couldn't hurt anyone. And Legolas had always preferred tales that talked of heroes and villains, of faraway places and times long gone. He had never asked about the death of his grandfather in battle or why his mother had been a simple soldier, one of which had gone with him to Mordor, and not an elven princess of high standing. He hadn't asked about Thranduil's hate for the Noldor or why he indulged in wine more than was prudent. Or maybe Thranduil didn't give his son enough credit and Legolas had never asked because he had seen the shadow on his father's heart and had known he wouldn't be answered.

In the end the result was the same.

For a few years it seemed as if the shadows were lifting bit by bit. The sun seemed to shine brighter and the world was at peace. At least as much as it ever war. The clans of men waged war against each other in the east and south but Dol Guldur remained untouched and the trade routes were filled with people and there was more reason for laughter than for tears.

And then the dragon came.

Smaug might have been small compared to Ancalagon or Glaurung he still brought destruction and death and the memories of things far worse. In his wake Dol Guldur was taken by shadows again and the old forest road was abandoned as was most of the trade now that Erebor was gone.

The pain on Thorin's face when he understood that Thranduil would not help him was now etched into his nightmares as well. As Thorin's friend Thranduil regretted his decision but as king he knew he had done the right thing. His people couldn't fight Smaug and the darkness of Dol Guldur.

Dragons were slain by extraordinary people: someone like Turin or Earendil but Thranduil had always been content to ensure his people's safety and peace and leave the heroics to someone else.

Laketown lived in the shadow of Smaug and Mirkwood under the threat from Dol Guldur. Orcs grew more numerous, bolder while his people, elves like woodsmen, became more wary of strangers and kept to themselves.

Thorin returned with a ludicrous plan and Smaug rose from his vigil, the orcs invaded and the Necromancer showed his true face. And all of this for a stupid jewel, showing once more that history was nothing more but a repeat of events time and again.

Smaug died, Erebor was taken back and Sauron fled back to Mordor.

However any pretence that their enemy was dead was now gone, the once great kingdom of Gondor lay in ruins and the peace they had sacrificed so much for would not last.


End file.
